A Certain Kind of Magic in the Air
by A Hint Of Mint
Summary: Three famous love stories. Two feuding sides of society. One very star-crossed couple. Yes, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are back again, but this time, there seems to be a certain kind of magic in the air…
1. Peaceful Nights In

SQUEEEEEEEE! I'M BACK, GUYS! XD I'M SO CLOSE TO FINISHING COLLEGE (that's highschool to all your non-Canberrans out there) THAT I CAN ALMOST TASTE THE FREEDOM! I'M SOOOOOO CLOOOOOSE!

But I've still got a few more days to go. And then interviews for medicine school, and then a debating competition up in sunny Brisbane :) My next few weeks are packed, but I just wanted to leave you with this chapter. This is still a work in progress, so chapter updates may be slow, but I know that if I don't post this story up, it'll be a work in progress forever. This way, I have some form of motivation to keep writing chapters :P Don't worry, I haven't abandoned any of my stories yet (I've started, like, thirty or fourty for various fandoms. They're all saved and I'm still working on ALL of them as the whimsy hits me) so rest assured I won't be abandoning this one, no matter how long I take in between chapter updates :P

Well, that's a tragically long A/N. Shall we get to it? :)

* * *

**_A Certain Kind of Magic in the Air_**

_By A Hint of Mint_

Three famous love stories. Two feuding sides of society. One very star-crossed couple. Yes, Draco Malfoy and Hermione Granger are back again, but this time, there seems to be a certain kind of magic in the air…

* * *

**Chapter One: Peaceful Nights In**

**10 am, Friday 4****th**** April, 2000, Hermione Granger's Place **

_The ministry was throwing entirely too many parties this year_, Hermione decided as she looked at the cream cardstock bearing fancy black calligraphy. _And for some reason, they all have to be themed, god damn it._ From ridiculous things like animal costumes to ancient Egypt, if it was something that involved a costume, you could bet the Ministry had thrown a party with that theme… or were planning to, at any rate. This was the fourth invitation Hermione had received that year, and it was only the beginning of April. Hermione supposed everyone needed it as a sort of pick-me-up after an entire year of darkness and then another year of extensive rehabilitation, but she personally thought that hosting a party every month was taking it a bit too far.

She looked again at the invitation in her hand and sighed. As a worker at the Ministry, she was entitled and almost obligated to go to every single one of those damned parties that they threw. Not that they weren't fun, in a way. It was just that after four solid months of attending them, all Hermione really wanted was a nice, relaxing night in without having to worry about what she was going to wear to the next one.

"Grecian," Hermione muttered as she tossed the invitation on her bed unceremoniously, "who came up with the theme of _Grecian?"_

_Pop._ "I did, I'll have you know," came the clear voice of Ginny Weasley, and Hermione almost died of heart failure.

_"Ginny!"_ she exclaimed, clutching her heart, "haven't you ever heard of apparating _outside_ the house and then _knocking?_ I know I'm your best friend, but even so, you could have walked in on something!"

"Like what?" Ginny snorted. "Like you changing your underwear? Honey, there's nothing there I haven't seen before."

"Like me snogging the life out of some random guy," Hermione retorted, miffed. Ginny just grinned slyly.

"That may be a problem… except for the fact that I know you don't have a boyfriend and you're not exactly the type to go around snogging 'random guys', as you put it." Ginny tossed her long red hair over one shoulder then proceeded to take command of the entire house, as she tended to do with any space she was in. "Merlin, Hermione, the party's on _this evening_ and you still haven't done anything! It's ten o'clock already!"

"Yes, ten o'clock in the _morning_," Hermione said, a touch sulkily. "I'm tired of parties, Ginevra. I've been running around all week trying to get my incompetent—I mean—you didn't hear that from me—well anyway, incompetent boss to see that elf rights is really the way forwards for our department"—Ginny snorted and Hermione shot her a dirty look— "and I went to a party last month, and the month before that, and the month before that, and the month before that. I'm _tired_, Gin. I want a rest."

Ginny looked up at Hermione, doing the whole 'tremulous puppy-dog eyes' thing. "Hermione, do you really not like the whole Grecian theme that much?" she queried, downcast, and Hermione backtracked frantically.

"No! No Ginny I love it! It's really very… original and unique and… I actually love Grecian dress-up! Half my family is Greek, you know, and I really would love to go, but—"

"Yay!" Ginny exclaimed, cutting off the rest of Hermione's words. "I knew you'd just love this theme, Hermione! So we can get to work on your dress now, right? Right?"

"Ginny, I would love to go, really, but—"

"It's settled then. I've already got my dress, and you know I don't have to do as much for my hair as you do yours, so I think we should get started! Oh but Cliodna, you haven't even got a dress yourself! And I bet you all the shops would have sold out of the decent dresses by now… but you never really want a dress from the shops anyway, what if someone turned up wearing it as well?" Ginny gave a delicate shudder and Hermione gave up on making her red-headed friend understand that she had no interest in going to the ball tonight. "Sewing is best, of course, but given our time constraints, I don't know if we'll be able to make a dress quick enough…"

Hermione saw a glimmer of hope and latched onto it quickly. "Oh really, Ginny, it's no trouble, I don't want you to bother yourself for me. You go and get ready yourself. I'll just have a nice early night and—"

"Oh nonsense, Hermione!" Ginny beamed, flapping her hand. "I was getting much too lazy cooped up in my house all day. It's about time I had a challenge. Besides, if all else fails, we still have magic. You're perfect at Transfiguration and Charms. You could always transfigure something of yours." Ginny reached behind her, presumably into her bag, and pulled out an armful of two different coloured, silken fabrics and started comparing them. Hermione knew right then that her friend had never had any intentions of _not_ letting her go to this party, and regretfully gave up her peaceful Friday night as lost. "Now I wonder which colour would look better on you? I know Grecian generally calls for white, and white always looks wonderful against your olive skin, but I really rather do like the red… besides, I want to see you in something with a little more _pizzazz_ and white is not really a very attitude-charged colour, although I suppose white—"

"Red," Hermione said without thinking. She then promptly winced. _Crap. What did I just say? Why did I say that?_

Ginny gave Hermione a wicked grin. "I knew you'd come around, Hermione! So red, yeah? That's good. I was thinking that too. I wanted to dress you in something a little sultry anyway. Let's get to it."

_Sultry?_

"Oh, uh, actually Gin, on second thoughts—"

But it was too late; Ginny had already vanished the pure, innocent-looking white fabric and was turning to her with her arms full of the dark red silk. Hermione watched her best friend whip out a tape measure out of nowhere with growing trepidation. She loved Ginny, she really did, but sometimes her redheaded friend had the tendency to go ever-so-_slightly_ overboard.

Hermione sighed. It looked like she was in for a long night, whether she wanted one or not.

Ginny finally left at about 4:30, with much chivvying from Hermione about how she probably needed to go get ready too. She departed with a warm, cheerful hug and a not-so-subtle threat about what she would inflict on Hermione's person if she didn't turn up to the damn gala ball tonight. Hermione winced, remembering Ginny's colourful, creative descriptions of what her Bat-Bogey Hexes were capable of.

She looked around her living room, which now resembled a war zone for rag dolls. Bits and pieces of red silk lay strewn everywhere, cut with razor-fine precision thanks to Ginny's handy severing charms. Various trims lay discarded around the floor, making a haphazard trail to her rubbish bin. And on her sofa was the finished product, the fruit of five hours' intense work— a dark red silk dress, complete with gold laurel-design trim and gold fastenings. A pair of gold strappy sandals were placed neatly at the foot of the divan, while the gold jewelry (which Ginny had insisted on going shopping for once they finished the dress) lay heaped in a gleaming pile on her coffee table. Hermione glared at the gorgeous ensemble like it was offensive.

"Thanks a lot, you," she said aloud to the mute pile of clothes. "My quiet Friday afternoon is gone now."

The pile of clothes, funnily enough, didn't answer back. Crookshanks stopped mid-stretch and stared at Hermione with his amber eyes, as if to say, _you realise you're talking to a pile of clothes?_

Hermione blushed. "No, I'm not insane!"

Crookshanks just continued to look at her, then yawned pointedly and slunk off somewhere.

_Great, now I'm defending myself to a cat._

Hermione threw another look at the beautiful heap, then glanced at the clock. She groaned.

_4:45._

The party started at 7:45. She had just three hours to take a shower, tame her hair, put on the clothes, do her make-up and get to Wendelin Hall (currently the biggest magical function hall in London; well, only _currently_ because the new _Potter Hall_, set to be completed in another year or so, was designed to be the biggest magical function hall in all of England) where the party was being held. Her hair alone would eat up at least two hours.

_Ah well,_ she thought, _I'll just have to be fashionably late. _

And to hell with Ginny and her threats of Bat-Bogey Hexes.

* * *

Draco Malfoy was not happy.

First, he had been dragged out of his house (and his prospects of a _peaceful_ Friday night) by his friend, Theodore Nott.

Second, he had been forced to shop for dress robes, _Grecian_ dress robes no less, in _public_ shops like some commoner, again by his so-called friend, Nott, who wouldn't know what mail-order was (cut and tailored to his physique exactly, of course) if it bit him on his arse.

Third, he was attending a party that was being thrown in the _Pothead's _honour, skulking in a corner, trying not to be seen.

And fourth, someone had just spilled bright red mulberry wine all down the front of his pristine white shirt, leaving a large stain that reminded him uncomfortably of blood. _Not_ that that mattered, of course, as his best Jacques Dinard shirt (only the best wizarding tailor in all of Europe) now sported a great blooming _red patch_ down the front that no amount of wizard dry-cleaning was ever going to get rid of.

"Oh, I'm so sorr—" the bint who had spilled wine down his front had started to gabble, only to realise who he was mid-word. The level of sincerity in her voice dropped from _'ohmymerlin who is that is that an expensive shirt I just spilled wine on ohmygoshI am so socially crucified'_ to _'oh, it's only Draco Malfoy, ex-death eater _(let's conveniently forget the word 'reformed' in there),_ therefore the fact that I spilled wine down his shirt is now null and void'._"—ry."

Draco fought the urge to hex the brunette bint into the next galaxy. "That's fine." He grit out through clenched teeth, but the airheaded wench was gone, wending her way through the packed press of bodies.

That was it. He was going to apparate home _right now_, and to hell with whatever Nott said to him tomorrow. The night was going from bad to worse, and it was only 8:15.

"Malfoy! Enjoying your spell out of self-imposed exile?"

Speak of the annoying devil. Theodore Nott wove his way towards him from the throng, wearing a silvery-grey _chiton_ that just hit his knees, complete with black edgings and silver gilt fastenings and clutching a glass of something cherry-coloured in his hand. Draco kept a wary eye on the flute of red beverage.

"My exile was self-imposed for a reason, Nott. People in general have the annoying tendency to piss me off. Case in point right here." He pointed to the gigantic, unmissable red slop down his front and gave Nott a pointed look. It was a look that sent most people bowing and scraping at his feet while fearfully avoiding his cold grey eyes, but Nott so far seemed to be the only person immune to it.

_Unfortunately._

"What, that little stain? Get over yourself, Draco, that little stain is not going to stop you from enjoying the party like you should be, that is if you've finished making your acquaintance with the wall and actually decided to start mingling."

_"Little stain?_I'll have you know this is a Jacques Dinard shirt, pure silk, and do you have any idea how hard it is to get stains out of—"

"Oh get over yourself, Draco, you have about ten other silk shirts exactly like it, and _twenty_ cotton-polyester blend ones. Besides, it's your fault for not wanting to adhere to dress code and wear those Greek robes we got this afternoon," Nott said flippantly, and Draco held back an irate lecture on the superiority of silk over cheap cotton-polyester blend. He wasn't able to entirely hold his tongue, however.

"And as for your suggestion to mingle? Honestly, how do you expect me to do that in this crowd? At least the wall doesn't flinch or sneer when I make eye contact with it," he said cynically, eyeing the aforementioned crowd with distaste.

"Well, firstly, it would help if you got rid of that smirking face you have going there."

"I do not _smirk!" _The nerve of him. How dare he suggest such a thing.

"Yes, you do. You're always smirking. It's one of the reasons why people don't like you." Nott said bluntly.

"It's a pity you weren't one of those people," Draco retorted, nastily.

"And you wonder why people flinch or sneer when you attempt conversation," Nott deadpanned. "Damn, Draco, it's not that hard. I was a Slytherin. I'm mingling _fine._"

"Your girlfriend is Padma Patil, of course you're going to be mingling _fine._" Draco pointed out. "Besides, you were a quiet Slytherin, mate. No-one knew you even existed. I only bothered to learn your name after we started working together in the ministry." It was true. Nott had been unusually shy and reserved back in their school days, something Draco now knew was a result of being a bastard child of a Death Eater. Nott Snr. had been Lucius Malfoy's colleague in the ranks of the Death Eaters. Theo's birth had caused quite a scandal a while back, for though his mother was pure-blood, she had been a disinherited outcast, living in poverty on the streets. As he had no other sons to name his heirs, Nott Snr. had been forced to adopt Theo (who would otherwise have gone unacknowledged and living on the streets with his half-crazed mother), but he had never thought of him as a son and therefore he had been able to avoid all the crazy shite surrounding Voldemort's return. In fact, he was shipped off to Durmstrang as an exchange student in his sixth and seventh years, narrowly missing Draco's fate of being branded and admitted into Voldemort's inner circle.

"True, true," Nott conceded, "But despite my supposed Slytherin evil-ness and my socially inept, quiet younger years, I'm still managing fine. You with all your natural suavity and charm, and the added, dangerous appeal of being a _reformed_ Death Eater? Girls will be falling over at your feet."

"From those ridiculous high-heels that they wear," Draco muttered. "Look, Nott, I'm going home. I need to get changed, at the very least. I refuse to stand around in a stained shirt, trying to make nice with all the stuffed-shirt elitists in this crowd."

_"You_ used to be a stuffed-shirt elitist," Nott grumbled under his breath. Draco frowned. That was low of Nott to bring up his one and only weak point: his guilt at being a good little brainwashed lapdog of the pure-blood societies.

"Yeah, so?" he said, a little brusquely. It did not deter Nott, however. Nothing ever did.

"So, stay for a bit longer, as a favour to a non-stuffed-shirt commoner," Nott wheedled. "Come _on_, Draco. You've been sitting in that mausoleum you call a house for the past month. You need to see the sunlight a little. People are beginning to think you're an urban myth, or a vampire."

"I've been setting my accounts to order. Our funds are getting dangerously low."

"Your idea of dangerously low funds is enough money to keep a whole continent afloat for a year."

"You never know when you might need to swoop in and save a whole continent."

"Thirty minutes, Draco. Thirty minutes of genuinely trying to get to know people and enjoying yourself. If you shut yourself off, the Malfoy family is going to be ostracised forever. You need to go out there and forge new connections, unless, of course, you want the Malfoy name to be wiped off the good books of people in general."

Draco thought about it. Theo made a valid point. (Damn, he hated it when Nott made sense.)

"There's still the issue of my shirt."

"Charm it a different colour. Transfigure it. Actually wear the bloody robes we bought this afternoon and stop sticking out like a bright green hippogriff in a crowd of thestrals. Do I care? Just stay another thirty minutes, man. I can't keep having a best friend who behaves like a hermit. It's seriously ruining my street cred."

Draco considered it. "Thirty minutes, and I get to go home?"

Nott shrugged. "Sure. I guess. Unless, that is, after the thirty minutes you suddenly find incentive to stay longer?"

Draco snorted. "Not happening, mate. But sure, I'll stay thirty minutes… if that's going to be enough to reinstate your lost 'street cred'."

Nott sighed. "It's a start," he said, then walked off. Draco (in a fit of maturity) made a face at his friend's retreating back. He sighed and muttered a quick spell, conjuring the dark green Grecian robes that he had indeed bought with Nott that afternoon (thought coerced might be a better word). It was a simple green chiton, made of pure cotton and edged in silver (hey, once a Slytherin, always a Slytherin, and besides, the same colours were on the Malfoy crest). A dark green robe went over his shoulders, also edged with silver and fastened with serpentine clasps, and brown leather bracers, sandals and shin wraps completed the look. Draco made a face of distaste and headed to the bathrooms to change. He consoled himself with the fact that he wouldn't be the only one looking like an idiot, and he would at least look better than Potter who was wearing purple (_purple!_) robes with silver trimming and was currently looking like High Prince of the Poofs.

Thirty minutes. Thirty minutes was _all_ he was going to stay, and to hell with Nott after his promised thirty minutes. And he was going to be counting every second of it.

* * *

Ginny Weasley irate was not something you wanted to be around to see.

Ginny Weasley _angry_ was definitely not something you wanted to be around to see, or even be within hearing distance of.

Unfortunately for Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley was his girlfriend and it followed that he was her expected escort to all manner of society events, and that included the gala ball tonight.

_Good Merlin, Hermione, please turn up,_ he pleaded in his mind as he eyed his _furious_ girlfriend, who would have been looking exceptionally lovely in robes of sky blue but for the fact that she sported bright red ears, always a danger sign for Weasleys.

"Um, Ginny? Are you okay?" he asked nervously, already wincing in anticipation.

"Okay? Why would you ask that, Harry? Why wouldn't I be okay?" Ginny said, in poisonous, saccharine tones. Harry almost cried. Things were worse than they seemed. Ginny using saccharine tones meant that an explosion was imminent. He sincerely hoped Hermione arrived to the damn party before she blew it. Hermione wouldn't just abandon him to Ginny's mercy, right? Right?

"Harry? Do you have the time?"

"What?!" Harry jumped so thoroughly that he earned strange looks from everyone within a ten-foot radius. Ginny just glared at him pointedly.

"The time, Harry, the time. You know, the thing that's displayed on a watch?"

"Right, time, time. It's…. 8:25."

Ginny turned away and started muttering dangerously under her breath. "8:25. _8:25._ She's late. She's 55 minutes late. She better be turning up in the next _five minutes_, or I swear to Cliodna I'll—"

The rest of Ginny's words were drowned out as a sudden wave of whispers swept through the hall, and every head turned towards the entrance where a slim figure was silhouetted against the black, star-strewn sky.

* * *

You have to love Snarky!Draco. How could you not? Trust me, it just gets better from here ;)

Happy reading and reviewing, my readers. 3

~Mint


	2. Parties, St Mungo's and Deja vu

**Chapter Two**

**Parties, St. Mungo's and Déjà vu**

**6: 55 pm, Friday Night, Hermione Granger's Place**

* * *

It would be wrong to say that Hermione Granger didn't enjoy dressing up; quite to the contrary, Hermione loved the drama associated with dressing up for a special occasion, always preferring to keep herself plain most of the time just so she could make an extra-big impact on the special days when she _did_ decide to get prettied up. That was partly why she hadn't wanted to go to the party tonight; after four straight months of getting 'prettied up', she knew that whatever she did, people would already have gotten used to by now. After all, if one was dressed up every day, the excitement that came with dressing up for a special occasion would be lost.

Which was precisely why Hermione was at a loss to what she should do next, at five minutes to seven and still wrapped only in a towel, her hair in natural cascading ringlets down her back.

Hermione stared at the mirror. Caramel-sepia-chocolate coloured hair, thick but (in its current state of drenched) not frizzy, of medium length, feathering just past her shoulder blades. A heart-shaped face, with wide, dark, almost black-brown eyes, ringed with long, but rather sparse, black lashes. A small, pert nose over curving lips, and eyebrows that were always rather sooty and appeared unkempt no matter how many times she attempted to discipline them by either muggle or magical means. She was, in a word, plain. Not ugly, but no striking beauty, either. It took brains and ingenuity to make this face up into something that had all the people in the room wondering over her, something she was rapidly running out of in the face of so many consecutive parties.

Glancing away from her reflection, Hermione threw another look at the red dress and gold jewelry that lay on her table top, the light dancing on the gilt surfaces of the accessories. She smiled softly. Despite her protests, she really did like the jewelry that they had purchased that afternoon. They had been from a little antique shop in the corner of Diagon Alley, run by a friendly but _extremely_ eccentric witch who reminded her a lot of Luna. The witch had told them that they were genuinely from 1200 B.C., used by a princess of Troy before its downfall. A quick, whispered spell had been enough for Hermione to confirm the veracity of her claims. There was a gold headband, wrought in the shape of a laurel wreath, each individual leaf shaped with amazing, painstaking detail. A pair of gold earrings, just two simple dangling discs of gold, hammered to paper-thinness and engraved with intricate patterns and runes. And a silver armband, a sleek thread of mercurial metal that wound around her arm twice and was set with a crystal-cut, pure-green emerald the size of a quail egg. All were genuine relics from the ruins of Troy, restored to perfection through magic, the only signs of their ancient heritage coming from the appealing, slightly worn look to the metals. Hermione didn't know why she had bought the last piece; all her other pieces were gold, after all, and her dress was red, not green. But it had seemed to her that the three pieces were a set; they would not be complete without the others. Besides, she liked the pop of green. It added colour to her otherwise very _Gryffindor_ ensemble.

Staring at the discs of gold that were her earrings, Hermione caught sight of her reflection in the circle of yellow. She stopped breathing. Something was… different. The gold gave her an aura about her that she had never seen before; it glowed around her face, softly becoming, making it alive, animated, and beautiful. Her eyes seemed deeper, her cheeks were flushed, her lips a rosy red…

Hermione snapped out of the trance, and blinked her eyes. What _was_ that? She looked at her earrings again, but they were once again just circles of gold, with a faint, rippling reflection of herself looking back with confused eyes. She glanced at the clock, and jumped when she realised it now pointed ten past seven. And she was still in a towel. Oh Merlin, Ginny was going to kill her!

Hermione looked back at her earrings one last time. The faint gold lights seemed to wink at her.

Hesitantly, Hermione put the earrings down and almost dreamily reached for her make-up box.

She now knew exactly what she was going to do with herself that night.

* * *

Whispering irritated Draco. He had been on the receiving end of nasty, whispered comments too much in the past two years or so, and he had developed what was akin to an acutely allergic reaction to it. The _sound_ of it, like so many dry, rustling leaves, actually raised goosebumps on his arms. For that reason, when the whispering started throughout the hall, he ignored it resolutely.

But even he wasn't immune to the peer pressure of what amounted to everyone in the hall turning their heads in the direction of the entrance. Draco tried to resist. He didn't want to be a sheep. It was probably nothing that exciting. Perhaps the Weaselbee had decided to put in an entrance. But when the whispering picked up and people started gasping, double-taking and even pointing, he couldn't fight it any more. His curiosity won out. He turned.

And stopped breathing.

Who _was_ she? Merlin, she was perfect. Her figure was a beautiful cameo against the night-black sky, the stars shining in the inky darkness a breathtaking backdrop to the flawlessness of _her._ Her hair was restrained by a gold headband in the shape of curving laurel leaves, tumbling over her shoulders and down her graceful back in wild, endless chocolate curls. Her dress was traditionally Grecian, with a cowled neck and a long, flowing skirt, but her arms were bare and he could see an unusually shaped armband encircling one slim bicep. The colour of her dress was amazing, the dark red bringing out delicious golden highlights in her tanned olive skin. Her face was small, dainty and heart-shaped, the chin coming to a defined point just above her swan-like neck. And her face…Merlin, her face. Her lips were full and cherry-red, curving in a slow, sensual smile that should have been illegal. Her cheekbones were high and delicately shaped, framing a small nose, and her eyebrows were curved just at the right angle, giving a slightly amused, sarcastic look to her overall expression. He could see, even at this distance, that her eyes were her most commanding feature. They were deep, dark and mysterious, a not-quite-black brown, the sense of drama conveyed by them heightened by the subtle shadows she had filled in around them in soft blacks and browns. Her skin shimmered with a gold aura. She looked like a goddess.

Draco's heart gave a jolt, and suddenly he was hit with a sense of intense déjà vu. He went reeling, grabbing onto the nearest table for support as he bent double under the weight of something foreign, unfamiliar. For a moment he was no longer in Wendelin Hall, but in a stone corridor lit only by the light of a solitary candle, and he was looking into the face of the woman in the red dress, only in his vision her eyes were streaming with tears. And as the world came rushing back around him, he realised who the woman in red was.

It was Granger.

"No, no, no!" he muttered, back in the Hall again, surrounded by people, still staring at her. She was still on the steps, not having descended yet. It couldn't be Granger. She wasn't that pretty, was she? And what was with the vision he had had just then? Why had they been standing in that corridor? Why had she been looking so… brokenhearted?

_Not my concern_, he reminded himself forcefully. What did he care what Granger looked like? Sure, she was beautiful tonight. He would be a blind idiot to deny it. But that didn't mean anything. There were prettier girls than her, and the vision was just a product of an overworked mind. He had been planning for a restful night in, after all. He needed it.

He looked over at Granger once again, and by now she had descended the steps and was greeting people. He saw Ernie Macmillan bending over her hand, kissing it like he was some pompous version of a chubby Prince Charming. Draco felt faintly nauseous.

All of a sudden, thirty minutes could not go by fast enough.

* * *

"Hermione Jean Granger!"

A blue and red blur crash-tackled itself into Hermione's midsection. Hermione felt the breath go out of her body with a soft _oomph._

"Ginny! Are you really that glad to see me?"

"I thought you weren't coming, I had my bat-bogey hex all lined up and ready!"

Hermione laughed musically. Despite all her earlier misgivings, it had been a good idea to come to the party. She had been here barely ten minutes and already every eye was riveted on her. She remembered that this was why she attended parties, the thrill of having everyone look at you, the feeling of being freer than you could normally be.

She looked around the venue for that tell-tale head of red hair, but could not find it. "Gin, where's Ron tonight?"

Ginny rolled her eyes and made a disparaging noise in her throat. "Ron! At home moping because the Chudley Cannons lost their last game of the season. I tried to get him to come, Hermione, honestly I did, but he won't budge."

"I'll bet you did," Hermione replied, amused, knowing that Ginny couldn't have had much time to devote to convincing her brother to come to the party when she had been with her all day. "I wanted to see him. I miss him." Despite the fact that they had broken up a year or two ago, they had done so amicably, and they had, thankfully, remained good friends. After all, they been friends for a lot longer than they had been a couple and Hermione was glad that that affection had outweighed any possible bad feelings between the as a result of the break-up.

Ginny snorted again. "I doubt my brother even knows the meaning of the phrase 'to miss someone', at least while the Quidditch season is still going," she said. "Alas, my Harry is exactly the same." The two girls looked at each other, then said in unison, "Men." They erupted into silly giggles.

"Aha, Hermione, so you _are_ enjoying yourself!" Ginny said, amid their peals of laughter. Hermione realised her mistake immediately and struggled to keep a straight face. She failed miserably.

"See? I told you the Grecian theme would be a smash hit," Ginny said smugly. "Even Harry's enjoying it, too!" Sure enough, their dark-haired friend was looking decidedly comfortable in his old-fashioned robes, chatting and mingling like he was born for it. Hermione, her contrary nature kicking in, could not help but try and disprove Ginny's superior little statement.

"Are you kidding me? Because I'm about to fall asleep on my feet here, Gin. And it looks like…. _that_ person isn't having a very good time either!" Hermione looked around wildly to find someone that might match her presumptuous statement and latched onto the first frowning face she could find, pointing him out to Ginny triumphantly. Her smug little smile at having one-upped her best girlfriend dropped as soon as she heard the next four words out of her mouth.

"Isn't that Draco Malfoy?"

* * *

"I'm fine, no, Nott, I do not need St. Mungo's… I do _not_ need a Healer… What I _do_ need is for you to get away and leave me the fuck alone!"

Draco's violent outburst, however, did not seem to faze Nott. "But, Drake, you looked like you were having a seizure, you _stumbled_, for Christ's sake, and had to hold onto the table, and if there's one thing I know about you is that you never _stumble_—"

"For Christ's sake, Nott, I stumbled _once_ because I had too much alcohol in my system, trying to escape the hateful reality of calling you my best mate. So? Turns out I'm human too. Leave. Me. The fuck. _Alone."_

Nott pouted. (The man actually _pouted!_ Why the hell was he best mates with him? What the hell did Padma see in him? If people like Nott could get a girlfriend, why was Draco still very much girlfriend-less?) "Okay, Drake, I take the hint. I'll leave you alone for now. But I'm just going to remind you that you promised to stay thirty minutes more at the party and you've only been ten…"

"For the love of Salazar, Nott, five seconds ago you wanted me to see a Healer! Do you want me to leave or go?!"

Nott finally (finally! After ten minutes of annoying him!) backed away, getting the hint. "Fine, I'll leave, Drake. But you better stay here another twenty minutes or so help me I'm going to come back and stick on you like a muggle band-aid until you learn how to be civilized." With that, he disappeared into the throng, muttering something about unsociable best friends. Despite his parting comment, Draco breathed a sigh of relief. Finally, _finally_, he could have some peace and quiet.

Wrong.

Because then the _girls_ started coming, at first one by one, then by the dozens, what seemed like millions of them, of all shapes and sizes and colouring—blonde, brunette, redhead, black eyes, green eyes, blue eyes, you name the combination, at least one girl fitting the description had been sent along to Draco at some point in the past fifteen minutes. The first one Draco thought she might have been intoxicated, or possibly she was just that dumb normally, to start a conversation with the most out-cast outcast in Wizarding society. But by the seventh, Draco knew that Nott was behind this. Probably having a right old laugh with Padma.

He seethed and promised Nott was paying for this someday.

It wasn't like the girls Nott sent his way were _bad_ in any way, shape or form; in fact, in his usual mood, he might have even enjoyed the influx of soft female bodies surrounding his like some sort of weird satellites stuck in orbit. But tonight he just simply wasn't in the _mood._ He didn't want have to come to the party and smile blandly through speeches that made subtle digs at him instead of sitting home with some nice firewhiskey and a book. He didn't want to have to wear Grecian robes because his dress robes were ruined and sulk in a corner because nobody wanted him. And most of all, he didn't _want_ to be stuck in this gaggle of girls, trying to pay attention to them and make conversation with the blue eyes vacantly staring up at him, when all he wanted to do was look into a pair of dark, brown, almost black-coloured eyes and wipe the tears that had run down her cheeks—

No. No. He was not going down that path again tonight. So he had a weird vision of Hermione Granger. That meant virtually nothing, apart from that he was tired and evidently needed a break. She was an infuriating, intoxicating, bewitching, seductive, lovely, beau—

"—tiful, really Draco, the green offsets your colouring so well, you should wear it more often…" the girl with the vacant blue eyes in front of him said, and Draco made a conscious effort to understand what she had said. He needed to drive Hermione Granger from his mind. For fuck's sake, it was just a stupid vision brought on by overwork and anxiety. He didn't need this crap.

_Maybe Nott's got the right idea, and I need a girl,_ he thought tiredly. He tried to focus on the conversation around him.

* * *

"By the gods, it is!" Ginny said, an almost awestruck look on her pretty face. "What on earth is _he_ doing here?"

"It's a ministry party, Ginny, anyone who works there can come," Hermione said, frowning slightly at her younger friend.

"No, no, that's not what I meant," Ginny said hurriedly. "I just meant… he's become somewhat of a recluse lately, never goes out in public much, and as for _parties_… well," she paused for dramatic emphasis, "this is a bit of a momentous occasion. Thanks, Hermione, you just proved my point: my idea was so awesome that it got even Draco Malfoy, notorious hermit, to come out and see the sunshine… or moonlight, as the case may be."

"Hmm, well, he doesn't seem too happy about it, now does he?" Hermione noted, studying her one-time enemy with interest. It had been more than two years since she had last seen him apart from fleeting glances at the ministry, and to her surprise, he had grown up and out, leaving behind his once-lanky child's frame and moving into a more adult one. The Grecian robes that he wore (in Slytherin green and silver, she realised with some amusement) left more skin bare than the usual suit that she saw him in at the ministry, and he was… well, not bulky, but there were definitely _some_ muscles there, lean and defined. But then again, all her male acquaintances seemed to go through this phase; once they grew up and decided they need a woman in their chaotic lives to keep it more organised, that was. Even Neville, whom she distinctly remembered Pansy calling a 'fat crybaby', had become a rather fine-looking man and had endless numbers of girls throwing themselves at him, including (to Hermione's deep and everlasting hilarity) that selfsame Pansy Parkinson.

But his body was not the reason Hermione was studying him so intently. His hair had grown out a bit, the ends of the strands tickling the top of his spine, and a little more disheveled than she remembered it to be from her school days. He had some light stubble around his cheeks, which also added to his general air of unkemptness, but it was the dark circles under his eyes that caught her attention. He looked like someone who had been pulling several all-nighters trying to finish an assignment at work…. Or fighting a war.

_Now where on earth did that come from?_ Hermione wondered, but before she could formulate an answer, it hit her.

_"Hermione!" _

* * *

Hermione went reeling, clutching onto the shoulders of her alarmed best friend for support as she bent double under the weight of an intense… what was it? Vision? Memory? that was so real that she could feel the oppressive stillness of the stale underground air, and smell the acrid smoke from the wax candle. She could feel the handle of the dagger in her palm, the runes etched into it pressing into her skin as she gripped it hard enough for her veins to pop. And she could see _him_, in front of her, dark green robes, light blond hair, looking so radiant and happy and _beautiful_ that she was scared he was going to shatter into a million pieces because he couldn't _possibly be hers_—

"..rmione. Hermione. Are you okay? Merlin, you gave me a fright! Hermione. Stand up, for Morgana's sake. Are you okay? Do you need me to take you to Mungo's?"

"No… not Mungo's… M'fine," Hermione managed to get out, her vision slowly receding and the face of her concerned friend coming into focus. Ginny did not look convinced as she helped Hermione straighten up again.

"I thought you were having some kind of seizure! You went sheet white and just doubled over, and you were holding my shoulder so tightly—are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine, Ginny," Hermione said in what she hoped was a steady voice, although it was a little shaky. "I _told_ you I needed a peaceful night in. Overwork, that's all." She ribbed weakly, and Ginny seemed a little less worried, although still warily watching her out of the corner of her eye.

Circe and Helena, what _was_ that? Hermione had never experienced anything like that before. What was she seeing? Was it a vision of the future? The past? Perhaps she was not really a muggleborn and there was Seer blood somewhere interspersed in her family? For it sure as hell couldn't have been a _memory_, because there was no way in hell that she would ever cry for a git like Malfoy, and he would never look so radiant because of her, for that was what had happened in her vision. The beautiful man in front of her had been Malfoy.

Hermione consciously avoided looking in his direction. She didn't want to risk anything like that again. Reformed Malfoy might be, but he was still a git, and she had no desire whatsoever to feel such overwhelming sadness and overpowering _love_ for him again, even if it was just in a dream.

* * *

The clock read quarter to nine. Draco Malfoy could hardly contain his excitement. Five more minutes, just _five more minutes_ at this buggering party, and then he could escape for good. But first he needed to find Nott and tell his best friend that he was off and he _better not buggering well try to stop him_, unless he wanted his dangly bits hexed in front of Padma. Uttering an abrupt goodbye to the crowd of women around him, he escaped their clutches swiftly and wove his way through the people in search of Nott.

_Damn you, you bloody bastard, popping up when I_ don't _want to see you and when I actually want to find you, you're gone?_ He seethed, checking his watch frantically. He wasn't planning on staying here a minute longer than what he had promised; contrary to Nott's idea that he would find some reason to stay, he had instead found even more reasons to _leave_, that damned vision of Granger telling him that he was going to have to check himself into the loony ward at Mungo's if he stayed at this bleeding party any longer. He checked his watch again, far too intent on the fact that he now only had three minutes left to find Nott, that he forgot that he was in a crowded room and bumped straight into _her._

* * *

"I'm sorr—"

"Forgive me—"

The two of them were a tangle of limbs and feet as they held onto elbows and shoulders in an attempt to extricate themselves from one another before they both realised who it was they had bumped into. Hermione looked up first from between her curtain of cascading dark brown and saw stormy grey eyes framed by pale blond. Her eyes widened.

"—Malfoy?"

"Granger! Watch where you're—"

But that was about as far as either of them got before both of them let out a small cry of pain and went limp, falling to the red-carpeted ground. Hermione felt as though something bright white and blinding had hit her on the back of the neck, and her last thought before the blackness encroached upon her vision was that _Draco Malfoy faints like a girl_.

* * *

... **Review me, guys? You know you want to. XD **


	3. You and Me, Greek and Trojan

**Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii'mmmmm Baaaaaaaaaaaack! Sorry for the long delay between this chapter and the last- I've been away from home and haven't had access to a computer. It is also my solemn duty to inform you, dear readers, that this is the last of the pre-written chapters and from now on updates will depend on my motivation and/or lack of a writer's block. However, I do know exactly where this story is going to be going, and I have it outlined to its conclusion- so hopefully updates won't be too patchy! And without further ado, let's dive right back in from where we left off- with our beloved Hermione and Draco! **

* * *

**Chapter 3: You and Me, Greek and Trojan**

**1200 B.C., An Underground Tunnel **

The air underground was stale, oppressive, and hazy with the fumes from a wax candle. The walls of the tunnel were roughly hewn, lit with the faint gold glow of an open flame, and the pervasive smell of moss overpowered the small, enclosed area. The acoustics of the walls amplified every little sound, making it impossible to distinguish between the scuffles of the rats aboveground and the deadened footsteps of a potential assassin. Achilles shifted uneasily. This was not a place that a man of his stature should be.

A noise, louder than the rest, like the soft pitter-patter of spring rain on the grasslands of his home, made him start. He turned, and there she was, resplendent in red robes, holding a lit candle in a bronze holder in one hand and a brightly gleaming silver dagger in the other. Her hair tumbled loose over her shoulders and down her back in their glorious, auburn-chestnut curls, barely restrained by the gold bands and laurel decorations encircling her head. Gold earrings caught the light and reflected them back into her brown eyes, making them seem full of glittering gold particles. She was tense, fearful, radiating uncertainty, and still she was breathtaking. Her eyes were wide with reproach and emotion.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, her voice tremulous but still strong, rich. "You cannot be."

"There is nowhere that I cannot go," he responded, hypnotized as always by her voice, her scent, and proximity. He moved a step closer to her. She closed her eyes abruptly and turned her head away as though it pained her to see him.

"Foolish, arrogant man! Your pride will be your downfall," she said, her voice strained and shaking. She opened her eyes back to him and they were glazed with tears. The tears touched him, and he remained undaunted by her sharp words.

"And yet you were here, waiting for me. You had faith I would come, did you not, Princess?" He moved another step closer, and the Princess stayed still despite her better judgment. She looked up into her warrior's eyes, and started speaking rapidly.

"I hoped… I hoped you would come… yet at the same time I hoped you would not."

He longed to hold her in his arms, to feel her warmth against his body. He wished she would put her dagger down. He moved another step closer, and she didn't step back.

"What do you mean, my Princess?" he asked, his lips brushing her ear. She shivered and avoided his question.

"My sister Cassandra… foresees an end to this war soon."

He scoffed. "Pah! Cassandra! Did we not agree that divination was nothing but folly, tales invented by humans to seek comfort in the face of an unknowable future?"

She flared up immediately. _My mistake._ He had forgotten her quick, fiery temper and her fierce loyalty to her family. "I know no-one ever listens to Cassandra. But… her predictions have been true before. And what Cassandra does is not silly divination. Hers is a true prediction. She has been touched by Apollo, the sun God himself."

"Most likely a braggart putting on airs to win the heart of the royal princess."

"Do not cast aspersions on my sister's virtue, or intelligence. She was visited by Apollo. This I know." Her voice was as sharp as a whip, echoing around in the confined space of the underground tunnel.

"Whatever you say, my Polyxena." He grabbed her around the waist, then, and crushed her to his chest, reveling in the feel of her soft skin against his and her delicate scent enveloping him. She shuddered and stiffened for a moment, but soon melted into his arms, molding her curves into him. And yet she seemed restless, uneasy. She spoke again.

"She sees… she sees a city bathed in blood. Everything on fire, the skies black and red from the smoke. Corpses littering the streets, countless number of men lying dead. Mad women tearing through the burning ruins, their clothes in ragged tatters and their feet bleeding, ripping at their hair and wailing. And wretched children, thin as a willow branch and as fragile, curled up everywhere, their eyes blank and… dying. Carrion crow wheeling in the air. Everywhere… death… destruction... misery. This she has seen, and more.

"I do not know whether she sees the future of Greece or Troy! She cannot… she cannot… she has always predicted things that have directly to do with us. It makes no sense that she should see the future of Greece. But that cannot be the future of Troy! It cannot! I will not… allow…" she broke down crying, and he hugged her harder to his chest, wanting to protect her from her own tears.

"Shhh, my love. Bear in mind that even the truest of predictions have the chance of being proven wrong. Nothing is set in stone. We will change things. Between us, we will bring peace and harmony back to our two countries. I promise you we will never let Cassandra's predictions come true."

"But even now, _this_, _us_, _we_ should change things! We are in love now… are we not? We are planning to marry… if _this_ changed anything, Cassandra's visions should reflect it! But she still has the same dreams… every night, she wakes screaming and I cannot comfort her… she cries so helplessly and curses the gods, shouting to Apollo that if this was what she had to see then she should rather have been left ignorant…"

"Shh, shh, my love. Perhaps she does not see the future of Troy or Greece. Perhaps it is the death of another city she sees."

"But I k_now_ deep inside that it must be one of our countries. I do not know why, but I know it! I am the high priestess and I possess some magic, though not as potent as Cassandra's gift. I have learned to trust my intuition, but I cannot but hope that I am wrong this time… oh, Achilles!" She buried her face in his shoulder and cried with abandon, letting great sobs rack her tiny frame. It was all he could do to keep his arms around her.

"Shh, Polyxena, my love. _My love._ I promise you we will change things. We will be the catalyst for peace between our two countries. We will prevent the loss of so many more needless lives. We will do it all. But I need you to consent to marry me. Marry me, and we can do it all. And I swear to you on my honour as a general of Greece to love and cherish you for the rest of my life on this earth."

She continued crying. Achilles had never felt so helpless in his entire life.

"I love you," he said, the only thing he could offer her. _His love._ "I love you, Polyxena. Together, we will end this war that has been raging for ten years. I love you. Do you love me?"

A surprised, choked sound emanated from his beloved's throat, and she looked up at him, brown eyes full of emotion. She seemed to be struggling with something inside her, and whatever it was seemed to be tearing her to shreds. Achilles' heart ached.

"Yes," she whispered, "Gods help me, Achilles, killer of men, murderer of my brothers and my sisters' husbands, but I love you!"

A sort of explosion took place inside of him. A joy so deep and profound that it scared him with the magnitude welled up from inside, and he picked her up bodily and spun her around, making her laugh through her film of tears.

A slight scuffle interrupted their happiness, and Achilles was in warrior mode in an instant, setting his princess down and whirling around in front of her, his own dagger drawn.

"Was that…"

"Did you hear something?" he interrupted her, his ears straining to hear a single sound. Polyxene looked uneasy.

"It's nothing. Probably the wind." She said, tugging on his sleeve.

"Princess…" Achilles said, his eyes still alert and scanning the area, unsettled by his usually cautious Princess's response.

"Yes?" Her answering voice was weak. Achilles narrowed his eyes.

"We're in an underground tunnel. There is no wind."

"Oh, I—"

Achilles turned to face her. "Princess… you agreed to come meet me here to marry me. So why are you dressed for war?"

Polyxena flinched visibly, but her voice was composed as she replied. "We are at war, Achilles. That is why I dress for war."

Achilles agreed easily. "We are at war, Princess. But even a warrior knows to shed their armour and arms on their wedding day."

Polyxena looked defiant. "This was the only way I could sneak out without arousing suspicion. I am not like you. I am constrained by my family and my role as a priestess."

Achilles studied her intently, his eyes searching her face. He saw her sparkling, fiery spirit in the proud tilt of her jaw, her quiet dignity in the line of her brow, her fierce intelligence and her infinite compassion in the shape of her eyes and the soft curve of her lips. But he read no deceit in her face anywhere. It was one of the reasons he loved her. On the battlefield, in the courtrooms, both places where lies and scheming ruled supreme, she wasn't built for deceit. He closed his eyes and let his suspicious nature go. He trusted his Princess. He loved her.

"I love you, Princess."

A small tremor ran through her. "And I love you too…. Never forget that." She was looking up into his blue-grey eyes with earnestness in her golden-brown ones, and he found himself helplessly drawn to her… they moved closer, her arms coming up around his neck and his going around her back like it was the most natural thing in the world… their heads tilted forward, their lips seeking a connection—

The sound of whistling cut through the still air and Achilles felt a white-hot, blistering heat start at his left heel and spread like liquid fire throughout his veins. He let out a cry and fell forward, pitching into Polyxena, who caught him and stumbled under his weight.

"Achilles!" the anguished cry echoed through the small chamber, and Achilles found himself being lowered to the ground, gently, and he was aware of his Princess's face above his, frantic and crying. He tried to speak, but the pain was blazing, blistering, all-consuming. It was all he could do to stay conscious.

"No, no, _no_…" Polyxena muttered, trying to stem the blood from his heel and the tears from her eyes, _"no!"_

"Princess… princess…" Achilles managed, but every word was like a bolt of pain straight to his heart.

"Shh… shh, Achilles, don't speak, don't speak, just—please—stay awake—" Polyxena begged, but she didn't know what to do, she didn't know how to treat arrow wounds, and as for arrow wounds to _that spot_ of Achilles—

A scuffling sound made her whip her head up for its source, and her anguished brown eyes met dispassionate blue.

"It's too late for him. I shot him in the heel, his only—"

_"His only mortal spot!" _she screamed, and her brother nodded impassively. "Paris, why— WHY—"

Her brother's blue eyes flared with sudden anger, and he strode forward and grabbed her by the upper arm. Polyxena struggled, but he only gripped harder, with bruising strength. Her silver cuff, the one set with emeralds that _he_—Achilles—had given to her, fell off, and was kicked unceremoniously to a corner by her uncaring brother. "Let go of me— _let go of me!"_

"Pa…ris… you mangy… cur… get… your… hands... off her!" a voice came from the floor, and Polyxena saw Achilles trying to reach for his sword, and her heart broke. She gazed up at Paris imploringly, and he let go of her arm and gestured towards the door.

"Leave us, sister. There is nothing you can, or should do."

Polyxena ignored him and rushed to Achilles' side. "Achilles—_Achilles_—Paris— how could you— I love him! I love him, does that matter nothing to you at all?"

Her brother, always so volatile, flared up again. "He killed our brothers! COUNTLESS OF TROJANS DIED BECAUSE OF HIM, AND YOU WANT TO MARRY HIM?!"

She was helpless before his anger, for she knew it was justified. She herself had felt that anger too, that hopeless, despairing anger, roiling like black smoke in the pit of her stomach and leeching joy from her life, driving her to revenge just to appease that coiling black rage…. Until she had met Achilles. Then, he was no longer just an object to be hated and feared; he was a _person_, with parents and siblings and friends and comrades and hopes and dreams and _anger_ just like hers. And he had shown her that _anger_ was not the answer. "Paris, I—"

A voice interrupted her. "Pa…ris..if I am to die… let me know… who told you of my mortal weakness?"

She whipped her head towards Paris, simultaneously curious and terrified to know the answer. She watched her brother's mouth curve into a cruel smile and saw her life crumbling to dust in those cold, distant blue eyes.

"Why, my lovely sister Polyxena here," he said, and Polyxena knew complete terror and complete despair all at once.

"No… no… Achilles… I swear…" she said, desperate to make him understand that Paris was _lying_—but—

"Ah… so that is why… you were dressed for war…"

"No, Achilles I promise you…" the tears were back again, flowing stronger than ever, because Achilles was _dying_ and he would go to his grave thinking she had betrayed him—

"I understand now… your cryptic remarks… your nervousness… you planned this… all along…"

"No, no, Achilles, please, I love you, I love you—"

"STOP- MAKING- A FOOL- OF ME—" he roared, and dying as he was, Paris and Polyxena shied away from his staggering anger. "Isn't it enough that you've already reduced me to… this? Look at this, the Great Warrior Achilles… undone by a woman…" his eyes were unfocused now, losing their light, and Polyxena knew that the next words out of his mouth would be his last, and tried to grab his hand, to make him understand that _she loved him_—but he knocked her hand aside. With a stupendous will of effort, he raised his head and met her eyes. He wanted her to take these words to _her_ grave.

"I… hate… you," he managed, before his body went limp and the light died in his eyes.

Polyxena screamed, a cry of pure anguish and despair, and flung herself over Achilles' body.

"Sister—"

"No! _NO!_ Achilles—you, Paris, you—_MURDERER!_ Don't touch me—_MURDERER!"_

"Sister, you have to be reasonable—father will be wondering where we are—"

"Don't touch me! _MURDERER!"_

Paris grabbed her around the waist and attempted to haul her up. Polyxena fought like a wildcat, so much so that her crown of delicately crafted laurel leaves was knocked off her head and her earrings, broken into pieces, fell off—but her brother was too strong for her to beat. He finally managed to fling her over his shoulder and carry her off, her anguished cries echoing in the stone corridor, leaving the broken, bloody body of her lover on the cold, stone ground.

"—lles—Achilles—A—"

"—Hermione!"

Hermione opened her eyes and sat bolt upright.

"—chille—… Harry?"

The worried green eyes of her friend came into focus, and Hermione blinked.

"Where am I?" she asked, still disoriented. She looked around at her surroundings with wide eyes, not taking anything in.

"The loony ward at St. Mungo's," a sour voice said to her left, and she turned to meet the disgruntled blue-grey eyes and white-blond hair of Achilles….no… _Malfoy_.

* * *

**DADADA-DUM! XDXDXD**

**Oh, alright, I'll stop trying to make it more dramatic than it really is. But what's going on here? What's happening to Hermione and Draco? Stay tuned for more romance and bad references to famous star-crossed lovers! **

**And review?**

**~Mint**


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